Dull Drop of Crimson
by Timballisto
Summary: “I wanted to see if Rebels were really like what Command tells us they are, sir. I wanted to see if they were the monsters in this civil war,” The stormtrooper’s voice was quiet. “or we were.” Leia realizes all Imperials may not be evil.


I was just clicking along, reading LeiaHan and, my new favorite pairing, MothmaJanson, when I had this plot bunny...and I went with it.

Disclaimer: I am not a man, last time I checked, and therefore cannot be George Lucas...

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Leia had many memories from her imprisonment on the Death Star. Determined, yet pain slogged memories of torture at Darth Vader's hands, overshadowed by the destruction of Alderaan. She remembered the black reflected surfaces of the floors, the grey bunk and the bland walls that housed her during her incarceration.

She also remembered the stormtrooper.

He had been stationed inside her cell after Darth Vader and his guard had left, watching her carefully as the last of the mind and torture drugs wore off. He was… more relaxed, she remembered, for a stormtrooper. He had lounged, instead of standing at attention. He had not ridiculed her, or speak to her at all, actually.

She wasn't really expecting that one.

She also wasn't expecting soft pressure on the back of her neck. Flinching, she had looked up to see the silent stormtrooper crouching down to her level and gently pressing a Imperial issue bacta-pad to the deep needle wounds aligned along her spine. His rifle was slung over her back, his pistol tantalizingly close. She could have easily grabbed it, and in one muscle spasm, rid the galaxy of one more Imperial.

But she didn't.

She had been too busy looking up warily at the bland black visor, wondering if this was another Imperial trick to get her to reveal the hidden location of the Rebellion. The stormtrooper had tilted his head slightly, as if trying to get a better look at her. Leia noticed a small red dot of paint on the side of his helmet, dull crimson, like blood.

"What?" Leia mumbled, embarrassed at having any Imperial touch her for any reason. Her pride, too, was another reason. The trooper seemed to realize this, and backed off, leaving the pad at the base of her neck. "Thanks." Leia mumbled grudgingly, her brown eyes narrowed with suspicion.

He had let her lick her own wounds for a while, leaning quietly against the grey durasteel cell walls, relaxed and apparently at ease with his prisoner.

She remembered, later, that Vader had come in, the mind probe prepped and ready. It had done a preliminary scan, like before, but instead of coming up clean it reported signs of bacta.

Bacta the trooper had given her.

Vader had turned to the trooper, his breath whooshing out in mechanized cold fury. The white clad soldier jumped to attention, his rifle held against his shoulder as he stood ramrod straid, heels in, in perfect form.

"Why did you help the prisoner, Lieutenant?" Vaders voice was harsh and as black as his mask, building like a dark storm.

The stormtrooper said nothing, he glued his eyes to the other, slate grey side of the cell. Though he seemed indifferent, Leia, an expert on body language (Being a Senator was not mere oral skills, after all) detected a slight tremor of the hand dangling by his side.

"Answer the question, Lieutenant." Vader's voice was quiet, and that seemed more dangerous than the rage beforehand.

"I wanted to see if Rebels were really like what Command tells us they are, sir. I wanted to see if they were the monsters in this civil war," The stormtrooper's voice was quiet, subdued, resigned. "or we were."

Breath hissed through Vader's mask in a harsh keen, and Leia imagined his eyes would have been flashing in rage. Vader turned his back on the trooper and gestured to the droid to begin.

She never saw the stormtrooper again.

So now, at the anniversary of the destruction of the Death Star, she leaves Han for a while, and places, perhaps a flower, othertimes, a small note that she had written, on the small metal plaque she had placed in the botanical dome of the Imperial Palace. But today, on the twentieth anniversary she pricked her finger and a single drop of blood fell, tumbling through space, to shine on the small, blank memorial she had created.

A small red dot, crimson, like blood.


End file.
